I have a simple morning yoga routine I use to help get my blood moving. Every day, I unroll my cheap yoga mat (a Target special) and perform the sequence of 12 poses, my focus tuned to the rhythm of my breath. Lately when I roll the mat back up, I’ve noticed the damn thing is falling apart.
There’s not much to the mat. It’s made from some sort of spongy pinkish purple foam. The foam is textured into rows of tiny spheres about the size of peppercorns. My guess is that the spheres are supposed to approximate a woven texture and perhaps provide extra grip. Each time I use the mat, it breaks down a little more, spreading nodules of foam rubber across the living room, where they seem to disappear (I hypothesize my dog has been eating them).
My yoga mat’s decomposition causes a little twinge of discomfort, as I know I may have to retire the thing prematurely. The thought of putting the big roll of foam rubber in the trash and buying a new one makes me feel mottainai, which is an excellent Japanese phrase “conveying a sense of regret concerning waste.”
I’ve been stricken by the mottainai feeling a lot lately. I’m not sure why, but sometime in the last year I’ve grown increasingly uncomfortable with throwing away useful things or things not fully used up. For us Americans it’s a cultural norm to buy things we don’t need and “chuck” anything we don’t want. Many of us treat our discarded stuff as if it vanishes once it enters the trash can. Such blindness to the basic consequences of our actions is on sad display at fast food restaurants, where workers constantly empty massive bins of wrappers and napkins and cups throughout the day. That’s mottainai.
As climbers, a more conscious way of consuming is often forced upon us: by the limitations of what we can fit in our packs or our vans, or by what we can afford to buy when living on the road without steady jobs. Like monks of old, we’ve learned to make do with a single bowl (plus a cup, a pocket knife, a spork, and maybe a pot or a pan…). We eat every last nugget of granola or slice of bread. When the cheese gets moldy, we carve off the mold and eat on. The dirtbag’s aversion to waste and excess is born of necessity but holds a wider significance.
With that in mind, I’m going to keep using that old yoga mat until it fails to serve its role, after which I’ll consider getting a new, more durable one… or whether I even need a mat at all. I’ll resist the urge to upgrade the mat now, as the feeling of mottainai is far more troublesome than the aesthetic displeasure of a cheap and battered yoga mat.
I think everyone should be attuned to this sense of mottainai. While uncomfortable at first, it can lead to its own opposite: the feeling of satisfaction that comes from using something fully up and wasting as little as possible. I don’t know if there’s a word for this sense, but it’s one of life’s great satisfactions and worthy of diligent practice.